We used to sit
in your bedroom
and climb onto the roof
after midnight, creating stories
for the constellations
that we sometimes drew—

The day we met—
you brought me cake
with the word “Happy”
in green icing;
how it filled the following years—

The drawings we made together,
hung on your walls;
Lego rocket ships
and video games
played until we
would watch the sunrise
from your rooftop—

Picking blueberries
with your mother,
our stained fingers,
the bag that burst
in the car;
the upholstery, soaked,
smelled of them for weeks—

That summer
we built a treehouse—
you fell off,
broke your arm,
and I wrote
of your Icarian shot at flight—

The camping trips—
the time we saw an eagle
land not three yards before us,
and the picture you drew
from memory that night—

The day you moved
to New Orleans—
we sat on your roof
the night before,
trading treasures:
my notebook of our stories;
your box of our drawings—

The letter you wrote,
eight months before
you left this world,
says you love the art
but hate the artists;
you once told me
“life is art,”
and sometimes I think
I know what you meant—

Now I wonder
if our constellations
befriended you,
and if you watch
with them and draw
pictures of me,
as I still write
stories of you.